Chapter Four
When I was sixteen, I went on a walking holiday with Dad and his then fiancée, Sasha. She was pretty but she was a bitch, and despite the walking part of the trip away being her idea, she found an excuse at every opportunity to complain about it.
Despite this, I felt this deep need to show Dad how much I liked her. I’d made his life miserable enough up till then. If she made him happy, then I was happy.
So, I gritted my teeth, held my head high and forged on ahead despite her constant whinging.
Sometimes I do worry witnessing my parents’ failed relationship somehow set my own romantic life up for failure. They’ve hardly been good role models. It forces me to be extra focussed on my job because, what if that’s all I really have to show for myself? For my life? I’d better make it good.
And that’s why I am not going to let James, who is striding ahead of me on his long powerful legs, bother me. I’m pattering down the road behind him, my heels clinking on the tarmac, doing two strides for each one of his.
“Will you slow down?” I complain.
“You’re the one who insisted on coming. You can keep up.”
I groan audibly. “You know you can be a real arse sometimes. Actually no, you always are. You’re always an arse. A great big, dick of an arse.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“You don’t make sense.”
He laughs, bitter. “Burn.”
A thought occurs to me now we’re totally alone, the minivan no longer in sight. “What did Michael say on the jet?”
“None of your business.”
“Just tell me.”
“I don’t want to.”
I scoff. “Fine, whatever. Just surprised you supposedly spent the morning with him but seemingly have zero knowledge of what the hell is going on right now. Why are we in Scotland anyway? Why here? Why pull us away from our busy working days without any access to our emails at all for… for this! What is this!?”
“I know as much as you, Felicity.”
James keeps walking ahead as if he can somehow out-stride me. He could. Absolutely. In fact, if he started running now, I’m sure he’d disappear in moments. I wouldn’t stand a chance. Even if I had appropriate footwear, he’d escape me like a greyhound racing a guinea pig. Which is intriguing, because why isn’t he?
He’s only walking fast enough to make it slightly difficult for me. I reckon he could go faster if he wanted to.
James’ phone bleeps. He tugs it out of his pocket so fast you’d think it was burning a hole through his chinos. “Shit. Low battery.”
“How do you already have low battery?”
“There wasn’t a charger on the jet.”
“But you didn’t leave home with it charged?”
“I didn’t go home last night.”
I laugh, roll my eyes. Not a surprise. I wonder who it was this time. Honestly the man has no shame. “Shock.”
He pauses then turns around, tilting his head with a frown. “What does that mean?”
I shrug, marching past him. “I’ve heard the rumours.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, you have?”
“Everyone has,” I say, listening to his steps behind me.
“Go on then, if you’ve heard them, where do you think I was last night?”
I’m just about to answer with something that, I’m sure, is very witty when we hear a rumbling sound in the form of an engine. We both step forwards to get a better look. After another moment, an ancient blue tractor rolls around the trees in the direction of the van.
We give each other a relieved look then start waving like crazy. It takes longer than I thought it would to reach us, so there’s a lull in our waving, but the man driving has seen us and slows to a stop, opening the cabin door.
“ Madainn mhath ,” the man says.
James runs his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Do you speak English?”
“Aye,” he replies.
“Oh, thank god. We’ve blown a tyre in the minivan down the road.” James points back the way we’ve just walked. “It’s parked up on the side by the lake. Can you help us?”
The man grunts. He’s got muddy, green, full-body overalls on. I know he’s a farmer but there’s a small part of my brain that thinks maybe this man might murder us. As long as he goes for James first then I have a chance to get away.
“Go on up to the town.”
“How far is that?” James asks, a bit less friendly now, disgruntled this man is not a sucker to his charms. We immune folk do know how to wind him up.
“’bout another ten minutes’ walk. Must be on me way,” the man says, slamming the door shut.
“Well, he wasn’t very friendly,” James says.
“Do you expect everyone to be charmed by your perfect hair, Gloatman?”
He takes a deep breath. “No, Felicity. If you must know, I expect people to be generally kind. I distrust petty people,” he says, before adding, “Like you.”
“I’m not petty!”
“Next time you’re near a dictionary, search for the word, because you’ll be amazed to find your picture in there.”
“That’s so not true,” I say. “You’re the one always making my life difficult with your stupid ideas and schemes.”
“The ideas and schemes that promise to make the company more money?”
“But threaten to ruin the image—”
“The image?” James scoffs. “God, you and the fucking image. What does that even mean?” He does that thing he does where he places his hands on his hips and juts one long leg out like some kind of Austen hero. Obviously, he’s far less refined. And comes without the absurd sideburns.
I’m aghast at his question. “I knew you weren’t paying attention in any of my presentations! We have a brand, James! A brand my team and I have worked bloody hard to create. It doesn’t just boil down to the corporate hospitality sales. You know they only make up thirty-five per cent of our overall revenue, right? And even less in profit when you take off the topline.
“We’re trying to create a long-term brand that people rely upon. You know, like Nike or Burberry or freaking McDonalds! We want people to know what to expect. But if you keep on ruining our consumers’ nights by trying to downgrade them a few weeks before, because you want to make more money in hospitality, then it’s going to damage our brand. Do you understand that?”
James ponders this for a moment. “I hadn’t actually thought about it that way, but hospitality is growing, and fast. Thanks to the hard work of my team, we now have a thriving client base who regularly and consistently buy tables off us. They have an image in their minds too. I think it could get so much bigger on my side.”
He looks away as if he’s suddenly transferred to his dream world where everyone and their dog can afford the packages he sells. Well, they can’t. “You still don’t get how important this is to me… I mean to the business.”
“But mostly to you.”
“Urgh, let’s just get this done with, please, and agree to no further chatter. You’re making my head hurt.” And he actually is. A throbbing sensation is growing right behind my eyes. I want to lie down in a dark room. I do not want to be walking down a chilly road in quite possibly one of the farthest parts of Scotland with the worst person I know. This is my idea of hell.
“Smartest thing you’ve said today,” James replies before stepping ahead of me and lifting the pace just enough to make my feet scream in pain again.
*
“This is a town?” James asks, squeezing the back of his neck with both hands.
I try not to get distracted by the way his shirt goes taut against his core muscles and force my eyes ahead.
The town is a small church, a few grey stone houses and what looks like a tiny school building. It’s surrounded by a magnificent estuary, with boats anchored, dotted around or tied up on one of the rickety docks. Gentle grey waves lap against them making them sway or dip. I have the urge to pin my nose. Clearly, the smell of rotting seaweed I experienced in the airport originated from this village. The gusts are so strong I can lean my whole body into them and stay upright.
A bearded man looks up suspiciously from his small blue fishing boat about fifty metres away. He’s probably not used to seeing new people around here. And if he does, they’re probably not wearing smart office clothes.
“Go talk to him,” I say to James, nodding in that direction.
He frowns. “Why me?”
“You’re the salesman. Isn’t talking to strangers like your key skill?”
I think he’s about to fight me on this, argue against it, but I guess I’ve already worn him down because he just rubs his face in his hands and walks slowly over to where the man is trying to avoid eye contact with us. I follow behind, leaving enough distance between us to show that I am the submissive one when it comes to this conversation, my arms folded to protect myself from the wind.
“Morning,” James says, with a friendly wave. He really is confident with this sort of thing. I’ll give him that.
The man looks up and around as if James might be talking to someone else. I look too. There’s literally not another soul in the vicinity. Who does he bloody think we’re talking to?
“We’ve broken down a few miles back that way,” James points, not bothering to wait for the man to respond. “Can you help us out? Do you know where we can find a phone?”
“There’s one in the church,” the man says, going back to unknotting the fish netting on his deck.
That appears to be enough for James, who, without looking at me, storms in the direction of the steepled building in the middle of the town. I totter along behind him.
As we step into the church a calmness comes over us. The wind isn’t invading the thick stone walls at all. Inside there’s a peaceful serenity. Again, nobody to be seen. It’s pretty bog standard as far as churches go with the pews, the wooden carved crosses and the organ taking up a whole corner. Right in front of the dark porch there’s a desk, a chair and a phone complete with wires and number pad.
“Blast from the past,” I say.
James ignores me, inspecting the ancient device. There’s a list of contacts beside it, plus a Yellow Pages. We sift through it until we find a local breakdown recovery service. Turns out there aren’t many breakdowns around these parts and the man says he’s off right away.
After that, James shoos me out to make a personal call. With only a minor grumble, I step back out into the fresh air to see the fisherman is now out in the water, slowly feeding the netting back into the estuary. There’s the sound of school kids playing, but other than that it’s eerie how quiet this place is, except for the wind whistling through the gaps between the houses lining the harbour.
“Let’s go,” James says, marching on in front of me.
“Everything ok?”
“Do you really care or are you just asking?”
“Back to silence?” I suggest, not enjoying his arrogant tone.
The walk back takes us longer. Turns out we’d been going slightly downhill the whole way to the village. But now we’re heading uphill, my heels are rubbing themselves raw at the back of my boots. It’s making my eyes water, but taking them off is not a solution. The ground is damp with sea mist and my knitted tights will soak it right up like a sponge.
As the lake where the minivan broke down comes into view, James’ step falters. I nearly crash into the back of him, giving him a little shove with both hands.
He moves to the side enough for me to see the conundrum.
“Where’s it gone!?” I demand. “Where’s the van!?”
James is speechless. He stands completely still for a few more seconds before ramping up to a flat-out sprint in the direction of the layby. My heart races in my chest as I tap, tap, tap behind him. He’s way ahead of me, stopping once again beside what appears to be two large hiking backpacks. He lifts and reads something, then he lets out this low-pitched, agonised wail that echoes off the surrounding water and rocky hills.
I slow as I reach him, coming to a stop just as he walks away down towards the water’s edge. He collapses to his knees, holding his head in his hands. Awfully dramatic, considering Michael will probably be back soon.
My eyes fall to the piece of paper James has dropped beside the bags. A fifty-pound note has been folded and pinned to the top. I lift it up and walk down to sit on a boulder a few metres from where he is having a mental breakdown.
I read out loud. “Well done on finding a recovery driver so quickly. Most impressive! Now here’s for the real fun. I was going to drop you off in the fishing village and brief you, but I feel this has worked out for the better.” I realise this was written by Michael, so begin using my best imitation of his voice. “Recently, James, you told me a story about backpackers who get the cheapest flight to Europe with only fifty euros cash in hand and must find their way home. It sounded most riveting.”
James moans into his hands at this part and I can’t help giving him a look. Oh, Gloatman, you and your stupid stories and ideas.
I continue reading. “I thought you could try that in Scotland. It should take you less time than in the whole of Europe. Think of it as team building…” My voice wavers. James pulls his hair out of shape as he looks across the water. I want to tell him to calm down but now my hands are rattling as I read the last part.
“Find your way back to the hotel by Saturday morning so you don’t miss your flights! It is imperative that you take the most scenic route you can, to ensure you are maximising your team-building opportunities. I want to hear all about your journey. I’ve packed you two bags so you have all the essentials you should need. In order to proceed to the next step in your career you must overcome the need to compete and find a way to cooperate. I would like to hear how you worked together as a team. See if this week will shine a light on your management skillset. Don’t let me down! And good luck!”